Random Film Scenes
by Icarus Aurora
Summary: Just scenes that I write down when my mind has weird creative moments. Usually I write them down when I see something. Generally speaking, they hold no point or purpose, but I think they're interesting in what they suggest.
1. I stand in the rain

**Hey readers. Kinda feeling all over the place recently. Not in a bad way. I'm happy generally, most things are going well, getting on point, life's looking up. I'm just worried about someone. Or more precisely, I want someone else to be happy. I like her. And I just can't help caring about other people, her especially (Obviously).**

 **So yeah, still aiming for the Sep 1st with my newest story. We'll see. I apologise if it's late. Life's been... interesting recently. Things are changing. Probably for the better but change is still tiring.**

 **Anyway. I obviously am a film student if you follow or read anything of mine. I spew and talk about it constantly.**

 **And these are just scenes that I wrote.**

 **IMPORTANT NOTE: These are meant to be visualized, not read. This is not about description, this is about your mind's eye.**

* * *

I stand in the rain. In an empty street. The soft dark blue glow of the lamp light just about reaches me, reflecting gently off my glasses. My eyes are closed. Hands open, hair sopping, shirt and jeans soaking. I breathe slowly. Face content.

The rain, patters.

A couple walk by carrying shopping, a quick dash to the shops for essentials that're missing. They stop together, the man holding the umbrella, the woman's hood up, each holding one flimsy plastic bag. They talk, the man standing to ask, the woman wary but caring. They approach together under the umbrella.

The man steps out from the umbrella.

"Uh, you okay there?" he asks, scrambling for his hood.

My eyes open. I grin warmly at him.

"I am fine," I respond. "Thanks for asking,"

The man looks around.

"It doesn't bother you? To be out in the rain?"

"No. Yet it clearly bothers you," I indicate to the umbrella and the hood he has now pulled over his head.

'Well, yeah," he finishes lamely "Aren't you afraid you'll catch a cold?"

"Is a dark side street a home for a gang member? Or something to be afraid of? Are the complex numbers of Wall Street confusing or soothing?"

The man pauses.

"That still has nothing to do with your personal health,"

I chuckle. "Yes, you're right,"

The man stares at me. I nod amicably to him. He nods back. He walks underneath the umbrella and the couple walks away, past me.

I stand in the rain.

* * *

CUT TO BLACK

* * *

I stand in the rain. A red headed girl stands across from me. Her glasses covered in droplet, each one eventually being struck off by the rain and replaced by another. She carries no umbrella, her long hair drenched. Clothes stick to her as mine do to me.

The rain patters.

And patters.

And patters.

"You'll catch a cold again," she says to me.

"Tell yourself that," I respond, smiling slightly.

"It's because of you I catch a cold," She rolls her eyes.

The rain patters.

I take a step towards her.

"You don't have to you know. You can go inside," I say to her.

She steps towards me. "No. I think you are right with this one,"

I smile mouth closed. I cross the distance between us and hug her, her arms slipping through mine and hugging back.

We stand in the rain.

The rain patters.


	2. Black dog in the snow

Black dog in the snow

A pine tree stands alone in a field full of snow. One of the branches shake, snowflakes cascading down gently. The pine tree big, the space feels small. It's glinting dark leaves contrast with the dull white snow.

A small red hat among the snow. The owner holds it to her head. Small, young, shivering. Little red mittens and little red shoes. A dark blue coat completes her as she stands in the snow that comes up to her waist.

She breathes into her hands, warming them, smiling. She nuzzles her face against the now warm mittens.

A black dog sits next to her, its fur wet from the snow. It's small, like her and looks up, watching her, ignoring the snowfall around them. Its tail is still, its ears are drooping.

It walks away from her, around the pine tree. She watches it go, smiling and waving to it.

She stands alone, next to the tree.

She cries.

She runs, following the dog's trail around the tree. It's small and discreet and the falling snow is already starting to cover it up.

Around the corner, she catches a glimpse of it. It's running now. The tracks are becoming deeper and deeper but it gets further and further away.

She falls, and finds herself in the place she started.

Alone, she cries.

She eventually stops. Sits down, and looks forwards.

It snows gently, a small mound of it amassing on her head.

The black dog comes behind her from around the tree. She doesn't turn around but stretches out a hand and strokes its head.

It bites her hand.

She smiles and hugs it.

And so they sit there, the little red girl and the black dog.


	3. Surf in the Sky

Surf in the Sky

The mackerel clouds in the sky shine bright from one end to the dark and shadowed other end.

They ripple in perfect pattern through the shift of the still light sky, to the slowly approaching night. The perfect Ombre of the evening sky overlaid with this mackerel.

A girl, inconceivable to the human eye flies steadily through the clouds.

Her mode of transport, a surfboard.

She rides the wave through the sky, the earth magnificently above her. The green grassy heaves all but forgotten as her hair listens to gravity, flying above her.

She hops from cloud to cloud, the mackerel rising behind in harmonious cacophony as cloud being to crash into one another, as if all being swept up by god's cleaning brush.

She looks back. There is no smile as she stands in her stance. More… expectation.

She waits as the clouds pile up, rising higher and higher towards the earth. The ground above her head rises up to meet them. The tip of a mountain, mirrored by the cloud mountain behind her.

The peaks touch.

And soon the mountain above her is far away.

But the mountain behind her comes crashing down. Cloud smashing over cloud as if each one fought the other to reach stability above the earth again

The girl pulls her legs in, breaking her stance till she stands tall on her board. Her hands are together in silent prayer as the sun breaks through from below in front of her casting a radiant glow over the clouds.

She and the board suddenly drop back, flying free fall towards the mountain of clouds that crash over one another towards her.

Suddenly, the clouds smooth out, combing into one massive sheet of elastic mackerel. She lands with her board against the wall of cloud.

And drops into the barrel of the wave.

From the tube in the sky, she looks up at the earth and smiles.

She rides the wave until she drops out of the crashing tube. And into the sky.

Her long blond her glimmers as she yawns.

This is the girl.

That surfs the sky.


	4. The Kitchen Light and Pans

The Kitchen Light and Pans

The light flickers.

It's a small light that it stuck underneath one of the upper cabinets that is over the countertop. There are cutting boards underneath the light, a wooden one and a glass one.

A cassette player sits on the glass one.

Pan lids sit around it. They shine dully, each a perfect sheen.

The kitchen around it is dark but you can see the whiteness of it. It's the usual. An attempt to keep clean but the dust always collects around the edges.

You stand in the middle of it. Your first time in this very kitchen. In this very house.

The play button on the player clicks.

"Kitchen," The droll voice rings out "Is the place for preparation. Almost all meals in an entire lifetime are prepared here. Everything is stored in cupboard or pans, each meal in the household simply waiting to be cooked, obviously unbeknownst that they, or maybe it, is just another meal. Of course it is also the cleaning place of leftovers, just remember to seal anything you wish to eat again, preferably in a reflective container so that it keeps warm,"

The player clicks at the tape finished.

The light flickers. You look down into the shiny metal of the pans.


	5. The Lantern of Ourselves

The Lanterns of Ourselves

The world is dark. It is, as they say, the end of the world. At least that's what people would like you to believe.

A match flares in the night, illuminating the massive drops next to the boy that lit it. He stands on the edge of a building, it halfway collapsed, a fair chunk of it missing.

Draw back, looking at down at the city. The small match is but a twinkle in the darkness as the stars gaze down upon the town.

It's abandoned. The building lay in disrepair, metal stairs on the sides of buildings hang dangerously, buildings slanted, glass blown out, structures propping up other structures.

The kid holds his hand around the flame, keeping it alight as the girl rattles the Chinese lantern she holds in her hand. She twirls around, filling it full of air as the other girl complains, the lantern hitting her in the face.

A boy with a torch on the edge of the building arrives, merging with the group.

"The wind's as dead as it will be. Where's the last one?"

"Late, preparing food," The girl who got hit by the lantern sits, flopping back on the floor, nestling in the grass that'd grown on the roof.

"I am not!" A girl's head sticks out of a hole in the roof they stand on. She climbs out slowly, her hoodie getting caught on the rough and broken edges.

The boy laughs and lights the fuel with the match. They wait.

They sit on the floor together, waiting.

Till finally.

They let go of the lantern.

It hovers off the floor for a second. Then rises.

They watch as it rises higher than any of them could ever reach, flying slowly away over the giant edifices in the town.

They smile, laying back in the grass as it pops out of sight.

"How many more times can we do this again?" the girl in the hoodie asks.

"As many times as we like," The boy with the matches responds.

They watch as their light joins the stars, unable to make it out anymore


	6. Under the SOX Light

Under the SOX Light

She dances in that yellow light. Her jeans an awful blue, her hair a faded red.

The lane sleeps, her twirling going unnoticed.

She mimics playing the violin, the raucous audience whistling and blowing.

The virtuoso of dance and song spins. She stops and clutches the metal rail at the side of the road.

Breathes.

Then stands in the spotlight.

The SOX spotlight.

A tune is heard. A harmonica.

She smiles and lifts her feet, starting to dance.

The tapping of feet joins in.

The girl plays along on the rail, drumming occasionally inbetween dances.

The other girl enters the yellow light of the road, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail.

They face off each other, dancing and playing.

Playing and dancing.

But then they stop.

The black haired girl sits in the grass, back against the rail. She pulls the hairband out.

'This lamppost special?"

The red headed girl shakes her head.

'Then why do you dance?"

The girl makes shadow puppets on the road, not watching the black haired girl "Why do you play?"

She shrugs "Cause I like seeing you dance,"

'You could've watched from afar, I don't need music to dance,"

"This is true," The black haired girl draws out a long note "But really, you need someone else to help you feel better,"

She gets up and listens.

Silence.

The long motorway sleeps. The light above them flickers, one in multitude that they can see until the horizon

But only one lamppost has two girls dancing underneath it in its two spotlights.

They're but many of those amazingly soft, yellow light


	7. The Shores of the Universe

The Shores of the Universe.

Sand dunes. These small hills of sand sit, basking in the low light of the ending sun which creeps out under the canopy of cloud. Its golden rays illuminate the flat shores down from the dunes, glinting off the water.

Old men sit on the sand mounds, swiping and blocking with their walking sticks, their faces alight with smiles and laughs as they duel. One of them climbs the mound to the other four, yanking a stick out of the hands of the next to go. The old man complains but gets up, the standing one taking his place.

The sitting down duels continue. The oldest 4 musketeers ever

The old man reaches the bottom of the mound and picks up the heavy ball in his old, carved, veiny hand. It shakes slightly. His eyes blink slowly as he focuses on what's in front of him. The wind non-existant.

By his feet tiny stones stand. Black, rich small stones stand in the light sand and behind each of them, small streak of raise sand that each stone has protected from the wind. There are thousands upon thousands of them, the old man accidentally stepping on a few, across the shore.

A ways away, a small silver ball glints against the sun, the light bending around it. In its orbit are large orange, green, blue, red and yellow balls. Each one vying to get closer to the shiny smaller sphere.

The old man throws and across the sky the ball arcs, landing with a thud as another globe is knocked out of the way and it lands in the sand. He laughs and jigs back up the hill, wrestling a stick out of another's hand.

Cut to a birdseye view.

Below, in the light brown coloured space, black shooting starts make their way through it, thousands upon thousands of them dotting the sky. Small planets of different colours orbit a small shiny sun.

The gods of the universe sit and laugh, fighting each other with walking sticks, choking on bottles of whiskey, pushing each other into the sand, running in and out of the waves without a care of their clothing.

At this shore where an entire universe is held. Old men play.

The sun doesn't set.


	8. Dreaming of Trees

Dreaming of Trees

We look at the back of a kid staring out of a window, his head taking up the middle of the frame. It's beautifully sunny outdoors, sunlight blares in through the window, thick defined shadows sit perfectly still on the white windowsill.

The leaves sway gently outside. Tempting, invitingly. The head remains still, darkness and shadows covering it, the short brown hair almost black. You can just about hear the sounds of his breathing.

A butterfly flies past, then sits on the window, it's wings opening and closing gently.

The head doesn't move. Not even a registration of the beautiful insect.

The wind blows, whistling slightly and the butterfly takes off and flutters out of screen.

A yelling, authoritative voice (V.O) "You can't be a cyclist for the Olympics"

(V.O) "Why can't I?" A kid's voice. The kid's voice. We zoom in slowly, the head still unmoving, the trees blowing gently in the window.

(V.O) "Cause you don't have the potential to be one"

Crying now. You can almost hear the tears streaming (V.O) "And what defines that?"

The kid's head still hasn't moved.

And we hear the echoing slam of a door from another time.

Then the crying of a kid as feet pound the pavement.

Then the screeching of a car.

The kid's head lets out a sigh, sagging. The hand drops from his chin that was holding the head up. He turns around, his entire body turning perfectly with him

Cut out to a wide shot of the room. The kid sits in a wheelchair. The room dark, mirroring the look on the black kid's face. Sofas fill the room, a tv in a corner. The wheels of the wheelchair digging into the cream coloured carpet, a small table weary on this plush and springy surface.

The kid's hands grip the armrests, blood vessels rising.

A sigh. He tries to make himself as small as humanly possible, but can't curl up his legs.

The trees sway gently outside.


	9. Alone in the Ring

Alone in the ring

The fighter stands alone in his ring. It's merely just the end of an alley. A car sits there in one of the two employee spaces. A streetlight flickers above casting a halo of light down into the ring.

A blue backpack is up against the side of the car. An old motorcycle stands ready. A puddle jumper motorcycle. Small whips can be heard just out of vision. The sound of fabric being flicked around.

The fighter keeps fighting empty air, alone. Down the back end of the street, people moving past the small opening to the main road. Facing him is a door and a grimy metal shutter door.

The signs of a recent fight here start appearing. Dried blood on the walls, abandoned hoodies in the dirt, bandages on the fighter's hands, hodling broken fingers together.

The door creaks open. Smoke comes out of the door first, a small trail of it. A bony hand grips the metal railing leading down into the small parking square.

"Still out here? Got a fight kid?" The woman pulls out her cigarette, tapping it nonchalantly against the wall as she walks.

"No one wants to fight me anymore," The slick black hair shakes as he stops his fist, stopping short of his imaginary opponent.

The woman stops for a second, watching the fighter. His baggy pants, simple waterproof jacket, old shoes. She pulls a face, sure she'd seen the kid get paid.

"Ever thought about joining a club if you wanna keep fighting?"

"Nope," Curt. Unresponsive. A sore subject.

The woman shrugs, the cigarette back in her mouth. We follow her back out the alley, all the while the fighter over her shoulder.

The fighter fights the air in front of him as people walk the alley. He sits at the end of it, a small figure, glancing in and out of the light. People walk past it, barely taking notice of it.


	10. Ripples of Childhood

Ripples of Childhood

A white ship sits on reflective water. Its hull a painted white, it's funnels a bright red. Two blue lines go all the way around the hull, its deck green, cabins light blue.

It chugs slowly over the crystal water, clouds reflected in the mirror. A small trail left behind it, cleaving through the water.

Steam billows from its funnels, the thick white cotton candy air combining slowly with the clouds in the mirror.

The mirror trembles.

A singular smooth wave ripples across the water speeding straight towards the boat.

The boat turns, facing away from the wave. It powers ahead, the sound of the engine growing louder, bubbles forming behind it in its cleave.

The wave hits.

The boat rises with the wave, slowly, as if going over a car hump backwards, then descends.

It bobs gently.

Then continues, chugging along.

Zoom out, looking over the clear reservoir. The unbroken water reflects the sky.

The child smiles as the boat survives, clapping wildly. The dad sits by the water's edge, smiling, remote in hand.

Until his daughter tries to make another massive wave.


	11. Remembering Shadows

Remembering Shadows

A man stands at the end of a train corridor. Its pitch black, you can barely see him.

A lamppost flies past but the train doesn't rattle, shake or move. There are no sounds of the wheels, no click or clack.

He breathes slowly. The man walks forwards.

A light streams past again, light blaring in through the windows, illuminating his foot as it bends.

"You were rash,"

It's black again.

But a shadow stands in front of the man.

The light blares past.

No shadow.

The man steps forwards more confidently, consistently.

The light blares past, illuminating up to his waist now.

"You were weak,"

It's black again.

The man hasn't stopped walking towards the shadow in front of him.

The light blares past, his feet stomping into the floor of the train corridor.

No shadow.

The man's jacket shifts around on his shoulders

The light blares past, flashing across his face.

Deep eyes.

"You were a monster,"

There is no shadow this time. The man simply walks, unhurried towards the end of the corridor.

The light blares past and stops at the end of the corridor, a long hard light illuminating it all just barely.

"But don't think you don't deserve another chance. Don't rush this one boy,"

A hand goes to the handle but doesn't turn it.

The man looks back. At the darkness of the train, the shadows going past.

"I'm not letting this one go,"

The door opens to burning light.


	12. Illowaya

Illowaya

The dark grey clouds shift, curving over the heads of the city as they stand tall, the lights of their eyes winking on and off as some great signal towers to some unknown recipient.

The flat canopy of clouds. The sheet over the earth.

Illuminated by the setting sun, a deep orange glow settling against the backdrop of grey.

The stage is set.

The audience, arrives.

The child sits on the windowsill, book between his knees he looks outwards.

A small cloud drift in on a breeze. It dances in the wind.

The sunset illuminates it casting an orange glow over the silvery grey cotton candy but a shadow on the backdrop.

The black shadow moves across the sky, lazily, unhurried.

The child watches.

The cloud almost reached the edge of the screen, nearly exiting stage left. Yet on stage right, other clouds appear.

The actors dance their shadows against the sky, the silhouetted figures changing shape.

An apple

A phone

A car

A tree

A teddy

A face.

They dance slowly, the audience sits, raptured by the changing forms of the actors.

The boy smiles, face pressed up against the glass.

The clouds come together.

A man appears.

He smiles at the child.

Bows.

Then winks as he disappears.


	13. A Question of Pride

A Question of Pride

"So, when were you going to tell us?"

"I wasn't"

The man sits in the chair in a small room.

A desk is on the other side of the room. Three people sit at it, a man and two women.

The woman in the middle mimics holding a cigarette, her eyes glancing at her empty fingers.

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

The man in the chair crosses his arms.

"It'll give me a sense of purpose, it'll force me to adapt, it'll help me,"

"Yet why didn't you tell us of this disability before?" the man on the right of the woman asks, his hands coming together on the desk.

"Because I don't consider it a disability. Would you ask a man who cannot walk if he can still write? It will not affect me when I'm doing my job,"

The woman in the middle of the table glowers at the man in the chair.

"Don't you have any pride in who you are? That you have this?"

The man leans forwards slightly "Pride? What has pride got to do with this? You talk of pride like you're here to help, that you understand and you pity me. You don't. You judge me. The fact alone that you instantly thought of it as a disability shows how you think. Not someone who you'd like to talk to, someone who has failed,"

He leans back in his chair. "Are you proud of having the flu? Are you proud of the tears, snot and vomit that you expel when you have it? And just so you know, I am proud that I'm a survivor, but pride has nothing to do with interview. You think a lesbian with conservative catholic parents will ever tell her parents she's got a girlfriend? You think a black American runner will ever wear a hoodie in a white neighbourhood? You think a depressed interviewee will ever bring up their own depression?"

The man snorts "Pride? You have the tenacity to question our pride over our situation. You expect us all to be martyrs for ourselves. We're not. We're ordinary people trying to make the best of our own situation. I am proud of who I am. Think we give a damn about pride?"


	14. Forest of Chairs

Forest of Chairs

Stacks of chairs fill a hall. They're this yellowish brown. The sort of colour you'd see at royal events or being expelled from the mouth of someone being violently sick.

The middle aged man looks around the room. He had been here before. His eyes glance this way and that.

Piano keys tinkle in. The man spins around, looking wildly.

Now cords. He stops. He looks at the chairs. Then walks through the stacks.

Each stack flies past like pillars to the man as he walks through them.

Cords sound going lower in tone.

The man's pace quickens. His suit ripples with every movement.

The cords start rising, in tone and volume.

The man turns at a stack.

A black grand piano sits upon a stage. Its fake new, its new yes, but quite clearly a fake.

Louder.

The man slowly walks towards it, the cords coming one after another filling up all sound.

Louder

The man pushes himself up the steps to the stage, the very stage vibrating with each cord crashing down into one another.

His fingers brush the piano.

Silence. It echoes through the room.

The man looks out to the forest of chairs. He slides his fingers carefully over the keys.

The breeze flying past the stacks whispers the past to him.

Applause echoes in fragments, as if coming from a radio then being cut off as its switched off.

The man looks down at the piano.

The black and the white look back at him.

He reaches for the lid. Grasps it with one hand.

The places it carefully down, sealing the entire piano shut.

He starts towards the stairs back down.

He stops.

Sheet music sits on top of the piano.

A hand comes into frame and pulls it out of view.


	15. Bleeding Light

Bleeding Light

The eye.

It blinks as rainwater hits it. The droplet of water slides down over it, the metallic milky white devoid of blood vessels. The blue ring around the dilated pupil spins slowly. The brand symbol of "Hosaka" spins into view, etched on the blue ring.

A light flickers in the reflection of the eye. Her face doesn't react as another neon light turns on above her, unable to move it from the concrete it is laying on. The white locks splattered against the face. Blood leaks from behind her ear soaking part of her hair brown. Her eye swivels grotesquely upwards directly looking into the light.

Darkness stands above her on the pavement. There is no detail to the shape other than it cuts out of the light. Neon lights spilling onto it do not touch it but instead melt off it. A completely pitch black open hand extends from the darkness. Neon light slips through its fingers.

The face's mouth opens slightly. A whirring, repeating click emanates. It struggles to get a connection then, finally, it clicks solidly into place. Her lips sound out the words which arrive two seconds after being said.

"I did-did-didn't think… the gggrrrrrrim, reaper came for u-u-us," The voice is perfectly feminine if not for the degradation.

"It doesn't" The black hand touches her chin and lifts up the face. A beautifully bruised face comes into view, the woman's manufactured eyes staring into the darkness cut out of the neon light. "Are you human?"

Silence.

"What, What ar-rre the require...ments of being… a human?" She asks, staring at the rivers of light bouncing off the being darkness. Her other eye is sealed shut by her eyelid.

The dark figure doesn't answer. The black thumb sweeps across her cheek pushing some of the wet hair to the side.

"Do you want to live?"

Her throat whirrs, clicking again.

Her eye doesn't lie as the logo of "Hosaka" swivels out of view.


End file.
